I found myself in a dead zone for awhile and in that dead zone, I began to question not only my writing ability but my purpose. Why do I write?

My self talk included words like, I’m mediocre at best. I don’t have the same command of the written English language other writer’s do, I’m not as intelligent nor am I as educated as many of them, so why do I want to write? I was so uninspired. Do you ever get that way?

SOMETHING OLD…

Even through all the above self talk which although may be true, I came to realize I have a voice and I wanted it heard.

As a child I grew up being told for every “why” I voiced that “children should be seen and not heard”, so little by little my small voice began to settle itself and it’s curiosity subdued. Not really. The questions are still there, they just ceased being audible.

Is that what I was starting to do by such negative self talk? Squelch the little voice with all the questions and amazing propoundings? Hmmmm

SOMETHING NEW…

When I got on board (the computer) this morning, I hadn’t really meant to write about my lack of writing. Oh, I’ve worked on a screenplay or two and I’ve been busy with rewrites. They are not amazing yet and because I so want them to be amazing, I beat myself up over them. I don’t want to just tell a story, I want them to be more, to mean something. I want them to sell of course, I want them to be talked about, something to savor, regurgitated and re-consumed.

When I started this morning I had other things to write about but this is what came out.

I watched part of ARGO last night. I couldn’t get through it. I bailed early on. I saw enough to see it was a well made film and worthy of it’s Oscar for best picture. Any film that can make me feel like I was there and that I didn’t like it, well it’s a good thing to have in a movie. BUT, there was Paris last week. How could I sit through a film of real life violence after that? I couldn’t.

Have you noticed how some films perpetuate or foment hate? ARGO perpetuates. It tells a damn good story but I felt myself hating Iranians and hating governments, feeling powerless to fix what hurts this country and it’s people worldwide. HELPLESS!

My son was a Marine Security Guard for two embassies. He visited many countries and formed opinions of the people in those countries based on his experiences there. He guarded many famous people including presidents, ex presidents, generals and diplomats. He saw sides of them we never see, which by the way was not bad. He saw them being funny and just being normal. Unless we are well traveled, opinions are generally (sadly) formed and based on what the media & social media banquets present us which are and can never be the same as personal experience. Unfortunately, it can and is frequently skewed by political correctness or manipulated to serve a “favorited” agenda. (My word)

In this film, as the Iranian mob swarmed the embassy, I saw those young men trying to protect it, I saw the people inside depending on them and I wanted to cry. That could have been my son! He was selected for and was in several “red” zones, those areas considered most dangerous. I saw the out of touch bureaucrats flailing around to make a decision. I had to turn it off. I was engulfed and overwhelmed by sadness so much that I was gasping to breathe. I couldn’t watch. I guess I’m an ostrich by heart.

Interestingly, my film is about the drug cartel and a young woman trying not to be swallowed up by the family business. Can I, will I make it inspiring, up-building? Or is it destined to be like ARGO, real? Am I up to it?

That’s my NEW. To make an old, tired, over made theme “new”, a story with a twist that can go either way.

SOMETHING BORROWED…

A lot of what I’ve got in my mental cache is borrowed. Have you ever wondered why we continue to carry this toxic waste in our brain? Think about it.

I didn’t get much in the way of positive affirmations while I was growing up. Truth is neither did my parents, so they passed their “stuff” down to me and over the years I’ve been able to discard some of it. Other stuff I’ve passed down to my children and they their children and so it goes.

I remember my eldest daughter meeting her birth father for the first time. She was 34 or about that when she met him and she was astounded when she realized how many of his traits, mannerisms and quirks she had acquired genetically. Things that you would not think could be passed down were. She never grew up around him and yet plain as day she was a mini me of him. Funny how that works.

Okay, so now we not only have genetics to combat, which for some of us is an uphill battle but then toss in our environmental, cultural and social exposure and conditioning and it’s no wonder the world is a mess. The old saying that “when in Rome do as…” Oh, if we could only be so flexible.

We are told we need to embrace our differences, which is easier said than done and not necessarily profitable to the human experience. Point being, not all differences are worthy of being embraced or sustained.

I spent a few weeks with my great grandson and saw a mini daddy in him. I’m talking about MY DAD !!! He was four months old when they “met” for a five generation picture and two months later daddy died. He never lived around him. He is five years old now and yet five generations apart and I saw a stubborn, headstrong, ill tempered tyrant. I used to call it the “Brothers” trait, then decided it was time to dump the labeling.

Still… it kept coming to mind. A week into my stay, when I didn’t let him have ice cream minutes before we sat down to eat, he totally trashed my room and my stuff. https://youtu.be/xsIiEXzxJNc His mom and I inform him he has to clean it up. He says, “I’m too little” (at this point he crosses his arms, mouth set and glares at me defiantly.) I say, “Not too little to make the mess, so clean it up!” Eyes fixed on one another and it’s a standoff. So I wait and after what probably felt like an eternity for both of us, he reluctantly begins to pick up as I watched. He was testing his boundaries. In my mind I was picturing my grandma facing off with daddy and wondering if this is what she had to deal with.

One time before daddy died (obviously), and we were still in Alabama, I was riding with Dad and it started to get dark. Cars without headlights are difficult to see, so I say, “Maybe you need to turn your headlights on”, I knew better than to say “turn your lights on”, knowing he doesn’t like to be “told” to do anything. Nothing. So now it’s dark. A car flashes it’s lights. Nothing. A car nearly hits us and lays on the horn. Finally dad turns them on, but I’d be damned if he was gonna do it on my say so. I say nothing, smirking inside while at the same time cursing his stubbornness. Two things were against me. For one: I’m a woman and second: I indirectly “told him” what to do. That’s not going to happen, not in his lifetime anyway.

Later my little “K” got into a dither because I was leaving, punched a kid in school because he was unhappy and cried when I left. We had another talk about that. I explained to him how our feelings do not have to control our actions, while guiltily knowing how often they do. He, like me wanted the “Why’s”. Genetics.

I was thinking too of how this little dickens needed an old fashioned spanking. But then knowing how violent daddy was and seeing the temper and tendency to lash out that this little guy already has, a “spanking” might only teach him that hitting is the way to get people to do what you want. I saw the conundrum. What a parental nightmare.

Today, in our politically correct world, that is the crux. The mindset of “live and let live”, free the spirit, loosen inhibitions, if it feels good-do it, where anything goes and there are no restraints, nothing governs us. To that end we are at the point where no one is free, we are instead living under the tyranny of someone else’s freedom, their right to do as they want.

It’s time to dump this ideology. It sucks.

SOMETHING BLUE…

I really don’t have anything for blue other than this litany.

But, how about what I was really going to write about? Me.

I discovered a short coming in myself. Oh, I’ve always known it was there, but found it disturbing (blue) that it’s still there.

It’s very telling really.

Yesterday, I got a text from my husband that he hurt himself when he was moving something around in the garage. Apparently, a handle on something he was carrying broke off and popped him on the nose and he was bleeding profusely. He thought he had a “concussion”.

I’m shopping and now leaving the store and reply flatly, “Oh, I’m sorry”.

Okay, know this about me. I am not a good “sick” person person. I do not do well with people who are ailing. Maybe it’s because mother was a hypochondriac always needing ministrations for one false ailment or another or maybe it’s just some genetic trait I can’t account for, I don’t know, but if it’s sympathy you want, forget it!

If I find out it’s real, then I pony up and do a good job and do it for real.

So here I am now in the car rolling my eyes. What’s worse is I’m not thinking ‘oh poor baby, he’s hurt’. He said there was blood everywhere and he could have broken his nose and his teeth. No,

This is what went through my head…

First off I conjure up visions of his already large nose being magnified, his face bruised, his teeth missing and how ugly he would look for … Thanksgiving!!! What would people think? My niece and her husband don’t know him yet. What a first impression and why do I go for guys with big noses?

Yes, those are my thoughts.

I know you’re laughing right now but think about it, it’s funny but sad. How shallow! Bitch!

I call him back and tell him how he needs to get the Arnica out of the medicine cabinet so he doesn’t bruise and can heal quickly. He says it wasn’t as bad as he thought once he washed the blood off. (A sigh and smile on my end.) I tell him “head bleeds are worse, use the Arnica anyway because swelling and bruising may come later” I wasn’t totally heartless, but my head is still thinking aesthetics.

Truth is if it had happened to me and it was as bad as he had originally imagined, I would climb in a hole and never come out until I was better or when I could see a million specialists to fix me up good as new and yes, I was conjuring up a new and better face and making a case for while they’re at it, could they fix my boob? It’s near my face.

What can I say? GENETICS?

By the way I meant boob singularly, (breast cancer last year?) Just make them match.

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